


Fire Sermon

by MarnaNightingale



Series: All the King's Men [11]
Category: Hornblower
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-21
Updated: 2009-04-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:09:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarnaNightingale/pseuds/MarnaNightingale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Thanks to: The Usual Supects, and I love them: Skud, Cat, Black Hound, Twin. Readers, cheerleaders, editors, arse kickers, co-conspirators, history geeks, madwomen, beloved friends.<br/>A good beta is beyond rubies. Mine are beyond diamonds: Wemyss, SJKasabi, Fajrdrako.</p>
<p>I have taken liberties with the order of service as laid down in the BCP, the usual travel times between Kingston and Portsmouth, and the last 15 minutes of Retribution. I feel at least somewhat apologetic about the first two.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Fire Sermon

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to: The Usual Supects, and I love them: Skud, Cat, Black Hound, Twin. Readers, cheerleaders, editors, arse kickers, co-conspirators, history geeks, madwomen, beloved friends.  
> A good beta is beyond rubies. Mine are beyond diamonds: Wemyss, SJKasabi, Fajrdrako.
> 
> I have taken liberties with the order of service as laid down in the BCP, the usual travel times between Kingston and Portsmouth, and the last 15 minutes of Retribution. I feel at least somewhat apologetic about the first two.

 

_By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...  
  
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,  
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.  
But at my back in a cold blast I hear  
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear._

> _ The Naval Gazette, March 1802_

> **KINGSTON JAMAICA**
> 
> **HMS RENOWN, HMS IMPETUEUX, HMS MINERVA, HMS HASTINGS in port.**
> 
> **Court Martial convened into the Death at sea of Captain James Sawyer, hero of the Nile, also charges of Mutiny and Assault among the officers. Lt. William Bush, Second of the Renown, and Lt Archibald Kennedy, Fourth of the Renown, both wounded in that same action which cost the life of Captain Sawyer. Cmmdre. Sir Edward Pellew, Capt. Hammond, Capt. Collins presiding. Lts Buckland, Bush, Hornblower and Kennedy called upon to answer a charge that they did conspire to and perform Assault upon the person of Captain Sawyer. Confession of Lt Kennedy that he alone had committed Assault upon Captain Sawyer and so caused his Reason to be Cruelly Shattered. Court Martial dissolved on news that Lt Kennedy was or soon would be dead of his wounds received. Lts Buckland, Bush and Hornblower found not answerable for the charges against them and restored to their Duty, Lt Hornblower to be given command of RETRIBUTION, captured in that same action when she be bought into the Service, see also APPOINTMENTS, Lt Bush to remain ashore until the Doctors should report him fit ...**

  
* * *

  
Burning, and the air burning around him; he'd been cast into Hell, then, and no surprise; he'd tried to pray, done his best to truly repent, and he had, did, there were so many things he'd wish undone, but not all; he'd die first, he'd be damned first, and so he had died, and was damned, damned and burning; there were coals of fire in his chest. _It doesn't hurt_, and he had smiled when he said it, but it had been a lie, he'd lied without shame or thought. One more lie, a featherweight on a scale tipped past all hope of salvation, but there was nobody to lie for now, no more point to pretending to courage; he opened his mouth to scream and the fire rushed in to mingle with the agony that squeezed his heart until blackness swarmed behind his eyes like storm-clouds over the Channel, and oblivion hovered. He felt a cool hand on his cheek, and the fire receded a little; perhaps he'd never had a hope of heaven but it seemed mercy could stretch so far as to grant him cessation, at least, cessation and peace and a last human touch to take with him into the welcoming dark.

  
* * *

  
He was juggling, juggling grenades; three, no, five of them. Or ten, or eight – they shifted and multiplied and vanished whenever he tried to count them, but it scarcely mattered in the rage of the battle and for as long as he could keep them all in the air in the thick of it, for as long as his mount's smooth pace let him catch and toss and catch and toss again he knew the French would go on falling back before him, mesmerised, muskets loose in their hands – as long as he could keep them in the air, but should even one fall, they would all go, and he would fall, and his mount on top of him, throat ripped and bloody, and they would rush in on him, would cast their guns aside and pull him from his saddle and tear him to shreds as if he were a fox run to earth by hounds – his hands were cold and stiff and clumsy in his gloves but he dared not try to take them off, there was no time, no rest, only the catch and the toss and screams and thunder of battle and the desperate need to go on and on – a man cried out behind him, and fell with a dull crack of bone, but he dared not look back, dared not even call out to ask who had fallen ... catch. Toss. Catch. Toss.

  
* * *

  
Blackness and bitter cold and a weight like a stone on his chest; they had buried him after all, snatched him from his shallow grave in a nameless stretch of sand and sent him home to rot – _Useless weight on a ship... ought to have sent me to the bottom ..._ He'd killed a score of men and tossed them over the side with scarcely a thought, left shipmates to lie as they fell and scrambled for his own life a hundred times; pray first or pray after, or forget to pray at all, it was all the same. What cold mercy was this, and whose? _Who else? Always mad after propriety, forever flinching from shame ... the resurrection of the body when the sea shall give up her dead ... _ This weight of earth, this crushing blackness, was not so gentle as the silken weight of cool blue. It would give up nothing it had claimed, not without a struggle, and he was weary of struggle, mortal weary. _Mortal weary_, that was almost worth a smile, if his lips would obey him ...

  
* * *

  
He had dropped it. He stared dully through stinging eyes, too weary even to flinch, waiting for the explosion, for the slicing pain of jagged metal, for the scream as Bucephalus went down beneath him, the weight of boots ... _a bullet. Let it be a bullet, please, let it be a clean shot ..._. Not the bayonets that tore a man to shreds and left him screaming through his own blood, screaming for oblivion and pissing himself in agony as his guts slithered in the dirt ... it had not burst, it lay still fizzing and smoking, the French halted before it in frozen, staring lines, peering down at what he had dropped ... it had ceased to smoke, now, even ... it was misshapen, strange – his hands were cold, that was why they were so stiff, because they were cold, because he'd got his gloves wet, wet with blood, covered in blood. There was blood on the snow around the ... the thing he had dropped, that Sergeant Masterson was bent over now, poking at it curiously, picking it up and bringing it to him, cupped almost tenderly in his raw, red hand – he let the rest go, let them tumble to the snow as he cried out – it was a heart, still beating. Still beating, and he had dropped it, and it lay pumping blood over the snow ...

  
* * *

  
"Drink." Welcome coolness on his face, in his mouth. He opened his mouth docilely, swallowed once, and was suddenly desperate, clutching and gulping until he choked and the cup was taken from his grasp; his eyes flew open indignantly, to meet with blue. A blue coat, a mid, sallow and slender, bending over him with the freshly filled cup; further away, half-turned to face the window, a Captain's lace. _ Why this is Hell, nor am I out of it..._ He struck the cup away wildly, heedless of the pain the movement occasioned, snarling at the startled boy until he backed away, shaken.  
  
"Making sure I can kick when they hang me?" It came out as a croak, guttural gibberish. The figure by the window turned; it was Pellew, coming over to take the cup from the lad's hand and refill it, Pellew, their one hope – a hope that had faded as the trial had dragged on and he had waited and watched and left them to save themselves if they could – he had lent himself to that farce of a trial with never a qualm and left them to sink beneath the weight of the Admiralty's need to cling to their mythical hero and now he thought to nurse him back to enough strength to climb a scaffold and stand on his own feet as they looped the noose around his neck ... he turned his face away and set his lips; no sense in wanting water. No sense wanting anything but a quick and private death, and it seemed he was to be denied even that, unless he could feign unconsciousness until they went away, until they left him alone to slip quietly away, to go down to Hell on his own terms ... such a little thing to ask, but precious to him, and he could still contest for it, would still fight with all his fading reserves ...

  
* * *

  
_April 16, 1802, Flanders._  
  
He stood as stiff and proper as any man there, gathered in this small, dusty clearing to listen with polite attention to the well-worn words of the service. Setting a proper example.

  
  
_... they cried out, Away with him, away with him, crucify him ... then delivered he him therefore unto them to be crucified ... and he bearing his cross went forth into a place called the place of a skull ..._

  
  
He bowed his head with the rest, and closed his eyes. A dusty, narrow street. The blank-faced guards and the long room, full of hostile eyes and implacable judges.

  
  
_Peace be with you._ He turned away.

  
  
* * *

  
  
_March 1, 1802. Falmouth, Jamaica_  
  
Pellew was back again, Pellew with his damned water and his false, insinuating voice and his fucking Naval duty to make him well, to drag him kicking and choking back up to the land of the living that he might kick and choke his way down to death properly, in order, all according to the Articles; Archie set his teeth against the cup and turned his head first one way, then the other, but that only meant Pellew's hand at his jaw, turning his face back to the rim of the cup.  
  
"Drink, Mr Kennedy. Drink and live. You'll not hang, nor die in this bed, not if I have anything to say to it. It's over." Coddling words, flummery to trick him into drinking; he screwed his eyes tighter against them, but a determined thumb parted his lips to allow the cup to settle against his teeth. "But you must drink." He had no choice, really, nor even time to think; the water was there in his mouth one moment, swallowed the next, to be replaced by another cool mouthful; he made to push Pellew's arm away, but he was an altogether tougher proposition than the mid had been, and Archie succeeded only in slopping water over his chin. He opened his eyes again – no more purpose to playing dead, clearly – and met Pellew's gaze. Sober, even irritated, but as plain and open as ever; he surrendered all at once, and swallowed dutifully until the cup was empty.  
  
Pellew smiled as he took it away. "No more for now. Try to rest, and tomorrow we shall see about something more substantial." He rose and made as if to go, but Archie drew him back with a hand on his arm.  
  
"I'm – not to hang?" His voice sounded thin to his own ears, almost childish.  
  
Pellew turned back; laid his hand over Archie's own, gently. "You have my word on it, Mr Kennedy."  
  
"Oh." Pellew's word was nigh-proverbial; he settled back into the pillows, and, much to his dismay, began to cry, great silent tears that puddled foolishly in his ears until he turned his head into the pillow to hide them, found he was as worn as if he'd stood watch on watch for a week, yawned hugely, and slipped back into sleep.

  
* * *

  
_May 4, 1802, Flanders._  
  
"Drink, my lord."  
  
"There's none left, Richard, and will you for Christ's sake go to sleep?" His head felt as if a pack mule had been stabled atop it.  
  
"No, drink _this_, my lord." On second thought, a team of drayhorses, and they'd been stabled _in_ his head; he gulped gratefully; sputtered. "Damn you, Weston, are you trying to poison me?"  
  
"Remedy of Sergeant Masterson's mum's, m'lord. He thought it might help you relish your coffee." Weston's expression was suspiciously innocent, but the draught, vile though it was, did seem to be clearing his head; he finished it and shuddered. "Christ. Is that meant for cure or penance?"  
  
"Couldn't say, m'lord," Weston said cheerfully, handing over coffee as he spoke. It was steaming hot, and strong, and when he finished it Edrington felt he might almost pass for a man again, albeit a somewhat elderly and infirm specimen.  
  
Peace should have come as a blessing, cause for celebration; it had seemed more a curse, breaking the familiar, numbing routine of duty, mocking him; too late, too late, and yet by so little – only one month sooner and Renown need never have gone into battle, two months sooner and Archie and Horatio might have been ashore, or at least within sight of it, poorer by half their pay but safe. He had stumbled through the days after the _Gazette's_ arrival, aware of his surroundings only when he tripped over them, numbly grateful to be busy with the endless, grinding, blessed routine of the battalion. It had occupied and exhausted, if not distracted, him, and while he was caught in its train he had passed his days calmly enough, lost in work and sleep, and if he never smiled, well, war was a grim business, after all.  
  
Then peace had come, and the relaxing of almost all restraints and routines, and with it a packet of letters from London, and among them one with the direction written in an unfamiliar hand which had proven to be that of William Bush, and an enclosure ... and his fragile peace had shattered beyond recall. He had begged off the victory celebrations where he could, with the thin excuse that their orders back to England must come soon and there was much to be done in preparation, but Colonel Manningham's patience with his most personable staff officer's sudden reluctance to dance and flirt and charm as required could be stretched only so far, and by April it was well-exhausted.  
  
Long days of finding and making work for himself had turned to longer evenings of cards and dancing and dinners and polite chatter, and he dared not even seek to make it all more tolerable with drink and risk the loosing of his tongue; he threw himself into festivity as if it were a campaign, every lady he danced with a new city to conquer, every game of cards a siege; he won money, and perhaps he won hearts, but if he did he never knew it, and took no advantage. Women who could be had by less delicate campaigns there were in abundance, in the first flush of peace; when other diversions failed him there was distraction there, but no more than distraction, distraction and enough bodily ease to make him sleep without dreams. In the few moments of reflection he allowed himself he knew he was drifting further and further from himself, but whenever he came near resolving to do something to mend matters he found, instead, that it would be more convenient to do some small task first, then another, and another, until it was time for another ball, or rout, or dinner, and the impulse was safely forgotten.  
  
Until last night; Richard had come and saved him from another such evening on the pretext of some vital matter that could not wait, and led him off, Edrington had thought, towards the stables. His protest when they continued past the rear of the camp and into the hills beyond had been met with silence; when they came to the privacy of the woods Richard had thrust a bottle of surprisingly decent brandy into his hands and told him that he might drink it on his feet or have it poured into him on his back, just as he chose, and bent to build up a fire. When the bottle was empty he had produced another, and then a third, and by the time they scuffed the fire apart and covered it with earth Edrington had been sick and dizzy from drink, hoarse from – talking, filthy and scraped from a fall he scarcely remembered, and wretchedly, miserably alive again.  
  
And alive he still was, it seemed, and safely back in his tent, though how that had been contrived was a mystery to him, and welcome to remain so. He rose from his bedroll and fumbled for a fresh shirt, emerging blinking into the thin warmth of the sunlight to see Richard, looking altogether too clear-eyed to have drunk his fair share the night before, sprawled before the fire with the last of the coffee in his hand.  
  
"I've already put another pot on, my lord, for you and the Major, here, and there's bacon, and some bread still from yesterday." Weston said, and Edrington opened his mouth to ask acerbically if Weston's undoubted talents for foraging could support an entire battalion's coffee requirements, thought better of it, and made himself comfortable on a boulder to wait. Richard grinned up at him, and after a while – it really was a fine morning – he found that he was smiling back.

  
* * *

  
_April 4, 1802, St Peter's Church, Duke Street, Falmouth, Jamaica._  
  
_I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death..._  
  
Not quite, though he felt like it; even in the cool of the church he was sweating – no more fever, thank God, but the least exertion left him shaking and weak, even now – this was as far as he'd ventured since being permitted to rise from his bed and dress, and twice on the brief walk through the tropical morning he'd had to find a wall in a patch of shade and stop, gulping air until his heart slowed and his vision cleared. Only pride kept him from sagging against the back of the pew, pride and an obscure sense of a debt to be paid.  
  
_And he came and touched the bier: and they that bare him stood still. And he said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise. And he that was dead sat up, and began to speak..._  
  
He wondered if it had hurt, and what the centurion's servant had said; nothing suitable for inclusion in Holy Writ, he suspected – returning from the dead was a miracle it took some time to come to appreciate when one was the object of it – he had been a bad patient, he knew, intolerant of fuss, infuriated by his own weakness – he'd had to take the long road back from the dead, and it had been a bit like digging free of Hell with a teaspoon. _Don't look back..._ Sound advice, however pagan the source; he forced his attention back to the service.  
  
_The first day of the week cometh Mary Magdalene early, when it was yet dark, unto the sepulchre, and seeth the stone taken away from the sepulchre._  
  
He had not properly considered resurrection from the vantage of the onlookers before; he considered it now. _ ... I know not where they have laid him ... Oh, God._  
  
His keepers were solicitous for his comfort, but when he had finally felt certain enough of his survival to ask for writing paper, they had been gentle but obdurate – the Admiralty must believe him dead, dead and buried and well forgotten, until Pellew could reach England and open certain very delicate discussions; until then, a single strayed letter – or worse, a single betrayal – could destroy more than his chances of ever returning to England, could reopen the entire matter of the mutiny once again and put not only him but Horatio and Bush in fresh danger of hanging. _Touch me not; for I am not yet ascended to my Father ... _ If he was never to see home again, it was as well to let them go on thinking him dead.  
  
It irked and chafed him to play such a passive part, though, to wait and trust and do nothing without leave; he was almost grateful that injury and circumstance denied him the chance to meddle. His life for theirs, and still he lived and breathed – in pain and in solitude, but he might look for a full recovery, the doctor had said, if he were careful and refrained from tempting fate – and the Admiralty. He ought to be grateful, and he was, truly. Life – even half-life, away from all he knew and loved – was sweet.  
  
Still – Pellew had sailed in early March, before the peace; if the wind were fair – he calculated and fretted his way through the remainder of the sermon; so long for Pellew's return to England, so long – how long? – for whatever witchcraft he proposed to work at the Admiralty to succeed or fail – thank God Hood was no longer a factor – so long for a packet to reach Kingston ... he sighed. There had been a small bookshop along the way to church. Pellew had left him money for his needs – perhaps tomorrow he might venture out to investigate their offerings. Something long, long and complicated and full of adventure. With a happy ending, he rather hoped.

  
* * *

  
_June 8, 1802, Plymouth docks._  
  
_This blessed plot, this earth, this realm ... this fucking awful climate._ Edrington stood on the deck of the _Greyhound_, shuddering under the cold trickle that seeped under his stock and soaked the back of his shirt; he pulled his greatcoat closer. Exchanging late spring in Flanders for a chill Plymouth downpour was enough to make a man consider charges of high treason against whatever damned fool had so crafted the Treaty that hardly a scrap of the Continent remained in British hands. His men were disembarked, now, and his horse waiting; he climbed down into the jollyboat and sat staring idly at the ships at anchor; the _Canada_, the battered old _Nonsuch_, _ Retribution_, blessedly unmanned – he must see Horatio, and soon, but not yet, not just yet – _Impetueux_ ... oh, _Hell._ She too was unloading men and beasts; she must have come in the day before.  
  
They reached the dock and he nodded to Weston, who handed him Bucephalus's reins and fell into step with him, making no comment as he quickened his step and hunched himself deep in his collar.  
  
"Alexander!"  
  
_Christ, no..._ He kept walking, concentrating on the corner of the stable, looming ahead of him in the mist. "Alexander?"  
  
"My lord..." Weston was looking up at him apprehensively. He marched grimly on, gritting his teeth, until a hand touched his shoulder, and he spun to face its owner.  
  
"Alexander, have you gone deaf?" Pellew was grinning at him, dear God, _grinning._ As if he expected Edrington to be pleased to see him, as if ...  
  
"I beg your pardon, Sir. I do not know you."  
  
He turned resolutely away from Pellew's shocked white face and entered the gloom of the stable.

  
* * *

  
_West Indiaman _Chance_, Portsmouth, July 20, 1802._  
  
Archie was huddled miserably in his cot when Pellew stepped into the cabin, and could scarcely croak out a greeting; to rise was impossible, though he managed to fumble himself onto one elbow before Pellew testily told him to lie back and turned to the doctor. "I was told that when you set sail from Kingston he was well on the mend, sir! Is this the sort of care you habitually offer your ailing passengers?"  
  
The doctor sighed. "He _was_ well on the mend, sir, up and about and getting strong until just a few days ago. There was a storm, a considerable blow, and the mast – he must have slipped in with the second watch when they turned out and been out there for an hour or more in the dark and the rain and the waves coming over the side at the men before anyone noticed him there and thought to call me. They peeled his hands from the rope –" Archie opened his mouth and the doctor snorted without turning around – "Oh, very well, then, from the _line_ if it means so blessed much to you – and brought him below, but the mischief was done. It's only God's mercy he didn't reopen the wound, or take it into his head to go for a climb while he was about it and split himself like an egg, but he did himself a poor enough turn as it was; raving by nightfall and in his bed since with a fine case of lung-fever, and I'll thank you not to question my care, not when I was up with him three nights running stopping him getting up to stand to his nonexistent duties."  
  
Pellew nodded. "Just as you say, Doctor, and my apologies; I spoke hastily." He bowed stiffly to the doctor, who returned a sketchy nod and a stately inclination of his torso.  
  
"Well, he's your problem now, and I wish you joy of him. Keep him abed until the fever's well gone, with pillows under him to ease the lung, feed him up, and let no one bleed him – his own strength will do the rest, if you can persuade him to permit it to. Damned young fool ..." He winked at Archie, who smiled wanly back, straightened his pillow for him – wholly unnecessarily – and took his leave.  
  
"I had intended to assist you to decent lodgings," Pellew said after a long moment. "But I see that will not answer; you are in no condition to be left alone for an hour, never mind for as long as it might take for some member of your family to arrive to take you in hand." He paced, hands behind his back, and Archie waited apprehensively. "I suppose it would be best if I took you to the townhouse; Mrs Maddern will know what to do with you."  
  
He nodded decisively and moved towards the door, presumably to put this new plan in motion, but halted when Archie said meekly, "Sir?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"I'm – I'm very sorry to be so much trouble, Sir."  
  
"Are you?" Pellew smiled sourly. "I ought to make a note of that – I do believe it may be without precedent in the whole of our acquaintance." He turned away again, and a chastened Archie settled back into his blankets to doze until they were ready to collect him, feeling obscurely soothed.

  
* * *

  
_My Lord –  
  
I see by the Gazette that you are returned safe to England and were last week at Plymouth; I hope this reaches you there or else is sent on to you as I should very much like to see you at your earliest. I shall most probably have to travel to Portsmouth in early August to show myself at the Admiralty and persuade them I am fit for a posting; I should be grateful if you were able to meet with me then. I shall try to come to London if this is not found convenient, though it may be some time before I am able to come to you there.  
  
Your obedient servant,  
  
Lt William Bush  
  
Chichester, 19th May, 1802. _  
  
_My Dear Lieutenant Bush,  
  
I am sorry to be so late in replying to you, but your letter seems to have chased me up and down England before finding me at last. I shall gladly meet with you in Portsmouth, but am unable to furnish you with a precise direction – my customary lodgings there, which I know you know, I find no longer convenient. If you are coming to town on Naval business and will let me know the day I shall meet you at the Admiralty and we can go on from there. I should be most willing to assist you in any errands you may have in hand.  
  
Edrington.  
  
at Dorset, June 24, 1802._  
  
_My Lord –  
  
I shall be at the Admiralty on August 3rd and would be pleased to meet with you then.  
  
Your obedient etc,  
  
Lt William Bush  
  
Chichester, 14th July, 1802. _

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street, Portsmouth, July 26, 1802._  
  
He might have been back in his cell in Kingston again, or even in El Ferrol, waking bleary-eyed to find Horatio in a chair beside his bed, hovering over him as he slept.  
  
"This is coming to be a habit." His voice sounded rusty and harsh in his own ears; he cleared his throat and tried again, smiling as Horatio sat up with a start. "Good morning, Horatio."  
  
"Ah – Good morning. Afternoon. I – I didn't want to disturb you, I – " He came over to the bed; hovered indecisively. Sat down at Archie's inviting wave; leapt up again as his weight on the bed brought Archie half-rolling towards him, and stood looking miserable until Archie held out his hand and pulled him down to perch on the bed once more. He would have tugged him down to lie beside him, had Horatio not still been staring as if he were seeing – _well, a ghost, I suppose_. A friendly spirit, at least; Horatio was still wide-eyed and nervous, but he gripped Archie's hand firmly, and had begun to smile, and that was something. "You look – you look better than I expected."  
  
Archie could not keep from laughing. "It's hard to know how to take that, Horatio – you had every reason to expect me to be half-rotted by now."  
  
"Archie!" There, a laugh, even if it was a faintly horrified one. "How – well, how do you feel, then?"  
  
"There's a new-healed bullet wound in my side and I've a nasty cough from the lung-fever – _not_ a combination I commend to you, by the bye – I can't seem to stay awake, I am officially dead and a disgraced mutineer, my mouth tastes like the _Justinian's_ bilges, and I think the fever may be coming back. And you're here. Take it all in all, I'd have to say I felt wonderful. Hand me that water glass, will you? I want to kiss you – but I've every intention of rinsing my mouth out first."  
  
Even when Horatio had dutifully handed over the glass and Archie had drained it and set it by the bed he only leaned over to bestow a nervous peck on Archie's mouth before bolting back upright to plait his fingers nervously and stare. Archie opened his mouth to protest, thought better of it – Horatio was clearly badly agitated about something, and prodding at him would only make it worse – shrugged, and changed the subject. "I understand congratulations are in order – Captain Hornblower."  
  
Horatio _jumped_. "Er, ah – hmm. They gave me _Retribution_, you know, but with the Peace – I am the newest Commander. And shall be for some time, it seems. Nevertheless, I, ah – tomorrow I must go down to London and see if I can get a – well, a berth, at least, though I have some faint hopes of a ship, if I can beat out the rest. I – ah. Well. You seem – you seem well. I'm glad. Will you be all right here? With Captain Pellew and – of course you will. Silly question. Of course you will. I – ah. Captain Pellew says I'm not to tire you or he'll have my – my ears." He rose and carefully rearranged Archie's pillow until it was as lumpy, Archie thought, as any pillow could possibly be, kissed him on the forehead – Archie was powerfully tempted to wrap one arm around his neck and _make_ Horatio kiss him properly, but his weakened reflexes were no match for Horatio at his most determinedly skittish, and the impulsive gesture ended in a sort of flailing half-caress of Horatio's arm, instead.  
  
Archie watched Horatio stride towards the door and was suddenly afraid. "You will come back when you can, Horatio?"  
  
He turned, and his expression softened. "Of course I will, Archie. I – I will. You have my word." And he was gone, leaving Archie to sink back into his pillows and stare thoughtfully at the shadows on the ceiling, chewing his lip. He ought to be furious, he supposed, at such cavalier treatment, but ... he was so tired, and it seemed a lot of trouble to go to, to work himself into a pet simply because Horatio was, well, Horatio. He had given his word to return, and not grudgingly – that was something, at least. Still ... this business of returning from the dead was hard on a man, and while a fatted calf would be wasted on him at present anyway, a bit of whole-hearted joy was, he had thought, not too extravagant a hope.  
  
Damn Horatio anyway – if he was determined to be miserable it was just as well he was off to London, where he could brood over whatever was ailing him to his heart's content, with nobody to tease him out of it or spend hours going over the same well-worn ground these moods always seemed to lead back to – soothing the same anxieties, excusing the same real and pretended failings, all the old, tedious themes. Left alone for once, he might finally worry his way to a conclusion of some sort, and if not, if he came back still of the same mind, well, perhaps by then Archie would feel up to managing him again.  
  
But not now; he reached instead for his book. Pellew had made him free of the library; his books, along with his clothes and other few possessions, were gone, sacrificed in the cause of verisimilitude, and the few volumes he had allowed himself during his enforced idleness in Falmouth had grown over-familiar long before. Of the contents of his sea-chest he regretted his Donne most of all – still, if he had lost the treasured red volume, the giver, the recipient, and the poems remained. He smoothed the wretched pillow as best he could, drew out the ribbon marking his place, and began to read.  
  
_If they be two, they are two so. As stiff twin compasses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth, if th' other do..._

  
* * *

  
_The Admiralty, Portsmouth, 3rd August, 1802._  
  
Bush emerged and stood peering about him until he spotted the single red coat among the mob of blue. The prospect of approaching Edrington had been unsettling enough in imagination; now that it came to it, he was mightily tempted to slip away, send his excuses, claim that he had been unable to spot him in the crowd and had at last given up. Their last encounter had been difficult enough, but at least he had had the consolation of deeming it an aberration, a chance meeting never to be repeated. He hadn't – precisely – promised Kennedy – had only said he would see his letter delivered – surely this man, so contained and self-assured, could have no need of any consolation he could offer. Probably he would be affronted at the very suggestion. _Mincing words with a dead man, William?_ He set his jaw and crossed the square, letting out his breath in a huff at Edrington's slight nod of recognition. "My lord."  
  
Edrington winced, then smiled slightly. "Edrington, for heaven's sake. Please." and, at his answering nod, "Assuming of course that your business is finished, I should very much prefer not to linger. I – have you eaten? I hope your business was successfully concluded?"  
  
"I have eaten, thank you, my L – sir. And not what you might call concluded, but they have at least agreed that I am fit for duty and held out some chance of an appointment. More than I expected, what with –" he stammered to a halt, and glanced nervously at Edrington, surprising him in the act of a similar appraisal. At close quarters the cool indifference which Bush suspected was native to his character could not entirely conceal the drawn look about Edrington's mouth, nor the faint bruising around his eyes. He looked away hastily, and would have apologised but for a hand on his arm.  
  
"I shan't try to persuade you that I am not – in any difficulty. This meeting could not but be – awkward. For both of us. But may we get indoors before we talk of it?" Bush nodded, and they made the rest of the walk to Edrington's lodgings in relative silence.

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street._  
  
Archie laid his book aside as Pellew slipped into the room, waving aside his attempts to rise and displaying two filled glasses. "I thought you might require a restorative."  
  
He held out his hand and considered – did Pellew know a great deal more about his attachment to Horatio than he let on, or was this meant to brace him for the discussion ahead? _Both, probably._  
  
He'd been waiting for this; half-dreading it, half-eager to have it done. He had his life – that it was life at a price was no shock, nor cause for complaint, but what the final tally would be – _My career, certainly. My reputation, my name ... _ But Pellew had bullied him back to life, cleared the way for his return to England, and Horatio's visit must surely mean that his sequestration was nearly at an end; the rest could be borne. Archie sipped his drink and waited.  
  
"I trust you were well cared for."  
  
"I was. I ... gather I have you to thank for..." _For my life_ "For their kindness."  
  
It _had_ been kind; whatever game Pellew was playing, it would surely have been made infinitely simpler by letting him die.  
  
Pellew waved his thanks away. "No more than my duty, Mr Kennedy." Archie raised a startled eyebrow. "Did you think you were the only man in the entire Navy whose notions of duty were broader than the Articles and the decrees of those damned fools at the Admiralty? Of course you did. Damned heroic young idiot." He took in Archie's expression – doubtless he was gawping like a fool – with surly satisfaction. "It was such a _beautiful_ plan ..."  
  
"Ah – Sir?"  
  
"Your jellyfish of a First Lieutenant – Buckland, that was it – was losing his nerve. That damned sot Clive was falling to pieces. A few more words in the right ears ... well. It's done now." He brooded gently over his glass for a moment, then set it aside with a sigh, and said in a familiar tone of deceptively gentle complaint, "Could you not have simply tossed him over the side in a storm? God knows, it's not _that_ difficult to arrange."  
  
_ And how do you know that? _ Let it go, let it go... "You think I killed Sawyer. Captain Sawyer."  
  
"A Spaniard's bullet killed Sawyer. The surviving members of the _Renown's_ wardroom testified to it under oath. Had it been otherwise, I would not have been able to lift a finger on your behalf, not even a clandestine one."  
  
"Ah." Archie subsided against the pillows. "Well, I thank you." Greatly daring, he added, "I shall try to do better next time," and watched with interest as Pellew choked on his wine. He recovered himself rapidly, enough so at least to glare at Archie, and then astonished him by laughing.  
  
"Never mind, Mr Kennedy. You did the best you could, and it was bravely done; I ought to have known you would upset all my calculations. There remains the matter of your future."  
  
Archie drained his glass, and pulled himself upright, turning so that he could face Pellew squarely. _"Have_ I a future?"  
  
"Within ... certain bounds, yes. Your naval career is over. Even if we were able to explain away your confession, my influence – and my own good sense – stop short of finding another captain to take you on. I can't ask a man to take on a Lieutenant who picks and chooses what and whom he'll obey. I daresay this comes as no great surprise to you."  
  
Archie grinned ruefully. "In truth ... it comes as a relief to me. I never was proper Naval material, not really. I did know it. I kept on at it because ..." _because I had a point to prove and a grudge to pursue. And because it was the only way to stay with Horatio. Hardly the honourable concerns proper to an officer in His Majesty's Navy, he would say..._  
  
Pellew shook his head. "You might have been an excellent officer, given the chance. The Navy ... did badly by you, first and last, and I regret it. You had damned bad luck ... but there it is. I'll not take the chance of helping you back into uniform."  
  
Archie nodded, then smiled at him. "I had some good fortune, too. If it had all been like the _Indy..._. So, no longer Lieutenant Kennedy. What of Mr Kennedy?"  
  
"It ... might be better not. For a time. The Admiralty can prove, if necessary, that Lieutenant Archibald Kennedy is dead. And is quite willing to, in exchange for having been handed such a discreet and simple answer to the conundrum; this way, their consciences are quieted and so are tongues which might otherwise wag in – places they'd not care to have questions asked. With Hood gone at last and his hangers-on left to cover their tracks as best they can and Jervis exploding every other day about peculation and corruption in the fleet ... they were, I believe, rather pleased than otherwise with the results of my – interference. But it would be a good deal simpler if the question did not arise. Simpler for all concerned. So – discretion is in order."  
  
"I see. I keep quiet, and they will ... refrain from noticing me." Pellew nodded. "You know, when I was a boy I hated my name. I used to wish my parents had called me – oh, anything but Archibald. Shame that it's my last name that has to go." He stared out the window, thinking, and Pellew waited in silence. "Best not to go too far from the truth, I suppose." Pellew nodded. "My mother was a Saunders – there are probably several hundred of them about. I look like them; it will make it simpler for me to remain close to my family unremarked. Will that do?" At Pellew's nod, he raised his glass in a mock-toast, half smiling. "I suppose that makes you my godfather, sir. If you don't object."  
  
Pellew raised his own glass. "Not at all, Mr. Saunders. Now," he reached out to take the empty glass from Archie's hand and set it on the table, "The rest can wait, and you look as if you might sleep again." He smiled at Archie's half-voiced protest and left the room, closing the door behind him softly; Archie gazed thoughtfully at the unresponsive wood for a moment, then reached for the book he had dropped among the bedclothes.  
  
_...And though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, it leans, and hearkens after it, And grows erect, as that comes home.  
  
Such wilt thou be to me, who must, Like th' other foot, obliquely run ... _  
  
Well, he could scarcely walk at the moment, much less run, but when Pellew returned from the Admiralty – or wherever he was off to now – he promised himself that he would finally get up the courage to ask him outright how soon he might – become a little less oblique.

  
* * *

  
_The Drake and Dolphin, Portsmouth._  
  
Bush clutched his glass and forced himself to relax into his chair. "You had my letter from Kingston? And..."  
  
"I did. I – I thank you. You ... took a chance."  
  
"I owed him. I owe you." He shook his head; tried again. "That sounds – I was more than glad to do it. He was ... you were right to tell me to trust him. I only wish ..." Edrington's mouth twisted, but he said nothing, only waited. "I'm sorry. I should have, should have ... "  
  
"He said you tried to stop him. That you did all you could. I believe him. Does Horatio blame you?"  
  
"He blames himself."  
  
Edrington sighed. "He would." Bush looked sharply at him, but Edrington's tone and expression conveyed as much affection as frustration. They drank in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, until Edrington set his empty glass aside and rose to collect the decanter. He refilled their glasses and sat down, taking a long pull at his drink. Said abruptly, "Archie wanted me to – to look out for you."  
  
Bush was startled into a grin. "He asked _me_ to look after _you_." At Edrington's incredulous look, he added, "Didn't say how I was to manage it, though."  
  
"No doubt he trusted we would contrive. _He_ always seemed to." With that, Edrington lapsed into silence again, staring at nothing, his fingers restless on the stem of his glass, twirling and tilting it to make the liquid within glow in the candlelight.  
  
When he spoke again, it was into the brandy; Bush had to lean forward to hear him. "Tell me what happened."  
  
"I'm not sure I – I missed the trial, you know, but I ..."  
  
"I know about the trial. Tell me about the rest of it. Everything."  
  
_Oh, God._ He gulped his glass and at Edrington's inquiring look, held it out to be refilled. "He ... he threw me off a cliff."

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street, August 3rd, 1802_  
  
The housekeeper frowned down at him. "Are you well enough to be up, sir?"  
  
"Well enough to try, I think." Archie swung his legs over the side of the bed and waited for his head to clear. "If you will find some clothes for me and fetch me a man to help me dress, I think I might do very well."  
  
She found him breeches and a fresh shirt with no more comment than to apologise for their age and size – clearly some spares of Pellew's, worn and bound to hang on him, but clean and mended – but her look as she went to do his bidding was frankly suspicious, and when she returned, moments later, it was with Pellew; Archie looked at him guiltily. "Sir, I..."  
  
"Asked for a man to help you dress, and now you have one, sir. Mrs Maddern quite rightly thought to come to me; she knows I'll not allow you to do yourself harm in the attempt. Besides, as far as most of my household knows, you are recovering from a tropical fever, not a bullet, and I should prefer to keep it so."

  
* * *

  
_ The Drake and Dolphin_  
  
"Dear Christ, did he?"  
  
Bush nodded, and took a long swallow of his drink before going on. "To my face, mind you, and stood there grinning, daring me to take notice."  
  
"First thing he ever said to me, standing there on the dock in a battered old mid's coat that fit him like a feedsack, as haughty as if he were waiting to conduct me to his own personal yacht, was that my men seemed too fine for battle. I wanted to throttle him, and he scarcely seemed to notice me at all, damn his impudence."  
  
"He wasn't afraid of Sawyer. Didn't seem to be afraid of anything, really."  
  
"There were ..." Edrington paused to drain his glass. "Not what most people are afraid of, not battle, or speaking his mind, but ... mind, his notion of succumbing to panic was to launch an all-out offensive, which made it difficult to tell if he was terrified or furiously angry or simply set on something." He shook his head ruefully. "I can only imagine what it must have been like to have him under one's command."  
  
Bush snorted into his glass. "_I_ can only imagine it. He didn't so much take orders as ... entertain suggestions, and politely comply. If there had been a scrap of real viciousness in him ... but I never saw him truly in a rage except over how young Wellard was used; he nearly terrified _me_ then, and I was not among his targets."  
  
"That would do it, yes." Bush noticed how he pressed his lips down, as if locking some secret behind them, before saying, "You ought to have seen him at Muzillac, racing a lit fuse over a bridge for Horatio's sake; my heart was in my throat. One got used to the feeling, eventually... " He trailed off inconsequentially, then burst out "I can't take it in. Even now, I can't. He was so _damned_ alive, he'd survived so much – I wake in the night and think it's all been a dream, something I ate, some ... damned idle nightmare come to plague me ..." He reached for the decanter again, clumsily, wiping his sleeve over his eyes. "'Tis loss to trust a tomb with such a guest..."

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street_  
  
For a man used to command, Archie thought as he tipped his head to have his hair brushed and tied at his nape, Pellew made a tolerable nurse and valet; he had been washed, shaved, and dressed in almost no time, and all without hurt to his still stiff and tender side. Even so, he was tired, and content to sit quietly and be tended to. "I ought to get your man to cut this for me," he said idly, and Pellew nodded as he tied off the queue and stepped back.  
  
"We shall have to get some clothes to fit you, as well – one set, at least, though I hope you'll outgrow them as quickly as you were used to do aboard _Indefatigable_. You're too thin by half."  
  
Archie nodded, then made a face. "There is, alas, the little matter of money, as neither my pay nor my allowance from my family have survived my – death. I don't wish to – to presume on your kindness any more than I have already, and – at any rate, I shall have to earn my bread somehow. I suppose I hadn't better think of going on the stage – too conspicuous, even if I could make a living at it – but I had thought – I can at any rate look to earn my bread behind it like any other ex-sailor. Once I get strong. Until then ..."  
  
"It's not so desperate as that; the allowance of a younger son will, it seems, be paid with equal alacrity into the account of a ... shall we say, of a distant cousin for whom your father feels some responsibility due to his tragic orphaning at a tender age?"  
  
"You wrote to my father?"  
  
"I called on him. I thought it wise, once we were sure you would live; he's not been well, and the shock of the news from Kingston had done him no good; he's on the mend now, though. He asks me to tell you that he looks to see you as soon as you judge it safe to come North."  
  
"Did he – did he say if he – if he forgave me?"  
  
"He said he was glad to know you were alive, and begged me to let you make your own excuses." Pellew paused, and smiled wryly. "He gave me some money, and asked me to see it safe to you. And he said your mother would wish him to send you her love."  
  
It was going to be all right, then; Archie exhaled. "I think I'd like to try to stand now, if you will help me?"

  
* * *

  
_The Drake and Dolphin_  
  
"And all he'd say was, at least the cells kept getting more comfortable every time, even if the food was still unspeakable." Bush laughed reminiscently, and Edrington smiled, seeing Archie's sly grin, hearing his voice, as if he were before him now, then sobered abruptly.  
  
"How – tell me the truth. How bad was it, William?"  
  
Bush chewed his lip, searching for words. "It was his lung, I think, or near to. High up, at any rate, not his – not his guts. He – he didn't speak of it, but it pained him. And the wound-fever..." He fell silent, watching Edrington's face. "He – called for you, once or twice. When he was – when he was sleeping, or fevered." Edrington buried his face in his hands at that, and Bush reached out tentatively to touch his shoulder; his wrist was enfolded at once in a hard grip and Edrington's eyes were wet when he looked up, or maybe, Bush thought uncomfortably, it was a trick of the light.  
  
He met Edrington's gaze squarely. "He – he was never alone. Not ever, until the end. I was there, and then Lieutenant Hornblower – he was never alone, nor was he ill-treated, Alexander. And when I told him I could see that his letter reached you, he smiled for the first time in days. Be content with that."  
  
Edrington closed his eyes, as if in prayer, and breathed deep. "I suppose I shall have to be. And I – when I saw you, when I knew that Horatio was back in England – I know you would not abandon him. Did not abandon him. And so I suppose that then I knew it was real."

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street_  
  
They made it to the sitting room in reasonable style, though Archie was happy to collapse into a chair and apply himself to one of the trays Mrs Maddern appeared with. He considered as he ate, and as he laid aside his fork he said to Pellew, "Still. I must do something with myself, I suppose, not just laze about town."  
  
"You'll laze and you'll like it, Mr – Saunders, until the last of those feverish fits passes and you've some meat on your bones. After that – " Pellew stopped to swallow the last of his soup and chase it with a sip of wine – "what would you have done, had you never joined the Navy?"  
  
"Oh – go on the stage, perhaps, though I was never as good as I fancied I was. I used to write poems. I tried to write a play, once, and mercifully lost the manuscript." He stared into his dish of raspberries, remembering, then said abruptly, "Do you think this peace will last, Sir? Strictly between us."  
  
"Strictly between us – I am quite sure it will not. Not had enough of the wars _yet_?"  
  
Archie smiled at him crookedly. "I ought to have had, I suppose. Still – it'll seem strange, sitting ashore and watching. And I've a score or two I wish I'd had the chance to settle."  
  
Pellew nodded, and returned his attention to his wine; they sat in silence, Archie doing his best to laze virtuously and conspicuously, until Pellew seemed to come to a decision. "If you mean that, Mr Saunders – Archie – well. Obedience may not be your virtue, but virtues you have, in plenty. It seems a shame to waste them. But for now ... be patient. Grow strong again. The peace will hold long enough to allow for that. And then – we shall see what might be done." It had the sound of a promise, or an offer, at least; Archie thought for a moment, then nodded silently.  
  
They chatted of other matters for a while, desultorily, until Archie felt his eyelids grow heavy and Pellew helped him back to his bed. As his eyes began to shut, he heard Pellew's soft footfalls returning, and saw him place something beside the bed, but sleep was fast overwhelming even curiosity – _I'll see to it when I wake up ... _  
  
He woke near dusk, and groped, remembering, at the bed-table, coming up with a folded note laid over some sheets of paper. He lit the candle left ready and unfolded it.  
  
_A rumour has reached my ears that Lord Edrington is back in Portsmouth, and may be found at the Drake – I feel sure you will agree with me that it is high time to put a period to his anguish. P. _  
  
Even as he blushed and wondered, he was reaching for the pen.

  
* * *

_These fragments I have shored against my ruins..._

  
_The Drake and Dolphin_  
  
Bush choked on his brandy, and reached unsteadily for more. "Alexander, he didn't!"  
  
"Oh, yes he did, right in the box at the theatre, as bold as brass, and all the time watching the play as if it were the only thing on his mind. I don't remember a word of the damned thing, and I still cannot think of seeing it again without blushing. Me, put to the blush!"  
  
"I see why you said you were quite accustomed to be ... what was the word? Accosted, that was it, by overbold Naval officers. And me thinking _you_ had led _him_ astray." He remembered the harsh thoughts he had had, and his ill-advised attempt at intervention, and was minded to apologise, but Edrington was grinning, clearly entertained by the memory, and he smiled back and let it go; chewing over old bones had never been his way.  
  
Edrington's hand shook a little as he filled their glasses yet again – Bush wondered vaguely how on earth he was to find his lodgings after this debauch, then thrust the worry aside for later – "You were not the first. He had only to widen his eyes to seem as innocent as a lad fresh from the country, and make me look a monster of depravity beside him, but he led me into more scrapes – led Horatio into scrapes, led everyone into scrapes, and out again – always out again, you know, always out again – " His voice cracked, and Bush looked up in alarm, but Edrington had recovered himself and continued, gesturing largely – "I never knew whether I wanted to scream or bugger him senseless. Or both, in that order. That night at the theatre ... Christ. I'd been desperate not to frighten him off, pussyfooting about, babbling of inconsequentials – keeping my distance and gritting my teeth and he – I've never _been_ so glad to get behind a door I could lock!"  
  
"I can only imagine," Bush said, when he could speak for laughing, and he could, that was the problem, he could imagine it all too clearly, especially with Edrington flushed with drink and staring into his glass with a smile both painful and intolerably sweet ... he turned back abruptly and met Bush's eyes.  
  
"Yes, you can, can't you?" and Bush blinked – dear God Edrington could make himself appealing when he cared to and he clearly cared to now, sliding from his chair, holding Bush's gaze all the while – _Christ, not again, not like this, I can't ... _ he shook his head to clear it and sat up as straight as he could. "Edrington ... "  
  
"Alexander. Yes, William?"  
  
"It – you're drunk, man."  
  
Edrington nodded solemnly. "I am. Drunk as a lord." He snorted at his own joke, peering owlishly at Bush. "So're you. Can't fool _me_ with that parson's face. Not too drunk to bugger me senseless, if you care to, any more than you were last time. What of it?"  
  
"I – _Christ._ It won't help, you know."  
  
"Did you think it was meant to?" Edrington's voice was suddenly harsh, and Bush stared. "I haven't been a saint since he died, William. Wasn't one before. Never been one – doubt it's in me. And talking of _in me..._" Edrington's anger had burnt itself out as quickly as it came, and his tone was soft now, almost coaxing. Almost, but not quite; they were each, it would seem, wary of seeming to take advantage. "You _are_ a sufficiently good reason on your own, you know. And I am not trying to forget him – don't want to forget him. Nor replace him, even if I thought I ever could. Good to be – 's been good to be with someone who remembers him too, mourns him too, not have to –" He rocked unsteadily on his knees, flung his arm out to recover – and fell heavily into Bush's arms.

  
* * *

  
_St Thomas's Street_  
  
Archie had thrown away three beginnings – one three pages long and probably, he thought, the least adequate of all – and was nibbling absently at the pen and staring at yet another fresh sheet when Horatio returned, coming in dusty and flushed from the mail-coach; he laid his pen aside with a sigh and prepared to do battle.  
  
"How did you find London?" He could tell nothing from the set of Horatio's shoulders; not even if he had caught the challenge in Archie's tone – no power on earth could possibly make him look more rigidly terrified than he did at that moment.  
  
"Warm. Crowded. And, I fear, unproductive – but I am to go again next week; there might be a chance of something then, or if not then, soon. You look – you look as if you might be strong enough to endure the strain of an embrace or two." To Archie's astonishment Horatio held out a hand to pull him from his chair and enfolded him – cautiously, but with determination – in his arms, and said, all in a rush as if he were reciting a lesson, "I am so ... when I thought you had died I hated the thought of having to live and I have never been so glad of anything in my life as I was to see you here last week, unless it was when I found you in Spain and I ought to have said so at once, I wanted to say so at once and I am sorry." Archie stood silent, torn between exasperation and an overwhelming sense of relief – whatever was making Horatio behave so oddly, at least the nagging ghost of El Ferrol, that tugged at his sleeve and whispered in his ear that he was, had always been, no more than one of Horatio's damned _duties_, a disruption and a burden he'd not repine to be rid of, could go howling back to whatever pit it always seemed to crawl from when Archie was in one of his blacker moods – he let his head drop onto Horatio's shoulder and wrapped his arms around him to embrace him properly. God, how long had it been, since someone had touched him so, for pleasure and not for need or pity? Horatio was still rambling – "I – I panicked, Archie, I simply – panicked. There was so much I wanted to say and I couldn't think how to say half of it and I – I don't deserve it, but – will you forgive me? At least, let me try to explain what a damned fool I am?"  
  
"Does it still need explaining, after so many years?" Horatio looked hurt for a fleeting moment, but against Archie's teasing grin it could not last; he smiled ruefully and shook his head.  
  
"I would imagine not, not really. But will you listen?" Archie nodded, and Horatio took a deep breath; remembered himself and urged Archie back to his chair, tucking the rug carefully around his limbs and patting it smooth until Archie's patience gave way and he sighed loudly.  
  
"Horatio, leave it. Please. I truly am much better." Horatio reluctantly abandoned the rug and began to pace instead, turning about the room and frowning as if thinking furiously.  
  
Just as Archie was about to prompt him, he spoke. "Archie, I – I abandoned you. I took my commission and I sailed off in her to gratify my damned ambition and left you behind and never looked back."  
  
"You abandoned my corpse, or so you thought, Horatio," Archie said, reasonably. "Did you think I wanted to be carried around the West Indies pickled in a cask of brandy? And as it happens, it would have been a very bad thing for me had you dropped me into one. When they took me away – Pellew says they took every possible step to make it seem I was dead. You cannot be blamed for believing them – you were meant to, you above all people were meant to!"  
  
Horatio only paced faster. "Why?" Archie stared at him, uncomprehending. "Why was I meant to? Why could I not have been told, why could I not have done something?"  
  
"You did do something, Horatio." The pacing stopped. "You did – understand, I infer this from the hints Captain Pellew has let fall since – precisely what you were meant to do. You took your promotion, and you left Jamaica. Without looking back." It was Horatio's turn, now, to look confused. "Would you have left, had you known I was still alive? Even, had you thought that there was some faint chance I might live?"  
  
"I – no. Never, Archie, you must believe that."  
  
"I do. I never questioned it; nor did Captain Pellew. And that, Horatio, is precisely the point. You had to leave, and immediately, precisely to make it clear that I was dead, dead and mercifully forgotten, and that you were clear of it all. Everything depended on it – for all of us."  
  
The restless pacing resumed, but Horatio's back was at least a fraction less likely to be mistaken for a ramrod, Archie thought. He was chewing on his lower lip, now, thinking furiously. He burst out at last, "But, had he only told me _why_ –"  
  
Archie sighed. "He wanted to spare you, Horatio. I still might have died – I very nearly _did_ die, I – I don't recall those first weeks, even now – _Nothing I'd swear was real ... or want to be real_ – he shuddered inwardly and wrenched his mind back to the present – "and then there would have been no point to telling you, ever. And – Horatio?" He waited until he was sure he had Horatio's full attention. "Do you remember, on the _Indy_ once, we got up a play, when we were becalmed?"  
  
"What the devil has that to do with – oh." Horatio grinned sheepishly, and Archie smiled up at him.  
  
"Yes. You are the best of men, Horatio. But you are a _terrible_ actor."  
  
After that it was better; Mrs Maddern appeared with tea and what she called a few odds and ends to sustain them until morning, as Horatio had missed his supper in travelling, and Archie his in sleep. Archie was inclined to think it a feast – he had protested the persistence she brought to the task of stuffing him at first, but he was forced to concede that, so long as he did not try to eat too much at any one time his appetite seemed inexhaustible. They sat and chatted over their meal; Archie coaxed Horatio for the tale of bringing _Retribution_ into port – no small test of his mettle and skill, limping as she had been even after the Kingston dockyards had hastily sealed her worst leaks – and contributed a few stories of the oddities of travel on an Indiaman. They discussed the Peace at some length, and teased each other over the books they were reading – Horatio scornful and scandalised at the extremes of Donne – for an atheist, Archie said, he was oddly protective of God's reputation for chastity – and Archie, in turn, declaring that Thomas Paine had taken all the most unattractive features of the Puritans and, having left out the hope of heavenly reward, been forced to resort to sedating the reader with the drone of his prose to numb their senses and render them persuadable. But talk of the future, except in the most cautious and general terms, Horatio would not, and at length Archie said softly, "What else is troubling you, Horatio? And don't say 'nothing', for I shan't believe you, and we'll quarrel again."  
  
Horatio had dropped down to rest his head on Archie's leg as they talked, letting Archie stroke his hair; he looked up apprehensively at this. Archie gazed steadily back at him, and smiled encouragingly. He opened his mouth as if to speak, closed it again, and folded his arms over his knees protectively, and Archie waited. Waited some more. Sighed ostentatiously, poured himself a fresh cup of the cooling tea, and settled back into the chair with it. It worked, as it had almost always worked; Horatio uncurled himself all at once and said, rather desperately, "It used to be so simple!"  
  
Archie had been diverting himself by attempting to guess how Horatio might begin whatever confession he was labouring so mightily over; that had not been on his mental list. He sat up and stared at him, jaw dropping. "Horatio?" he said at last. "Did you – I beg your pardon, but it was my impression that _I_ was the one who had for the last few months been prone to bouts of delirium. Simple? The Navy? You and me on the _Renown_, up to our ears in madmen and mutiny and Spaniards? The French trying to blow us back across the Channel? Dodging the Articles all these years?" He sputtered to a halt at the sight of Horatio's miserable expression, and subsided back into his chair, muttering "Simple!' indignantly – but softly – into his teacup.  
  
Horatio rose and began to pace. "Not simple, then. But it – but everything made sense, it fitted together, it – " Archie was listening intently, still uncomprehending, and Horatio shook his head in despair – "There was the Navy. And there was you. And – and you were part of it, don't you see, and it was – I thought it was part of you, and I knew what I had to do to – to do right by you both. Because where it was, you were, and my duty to Lieutenant Kennedy was part of my duty to the Navy. And then – then it wasn't anymore, and I – and now it will never be again and – and I don't know what to do. I don't know what we're going to do."  
  
Archie bit down hard on the response that sprang to his lips. _No. We've had that argument too many times already. I don't want – I refuse – to go on having it._  
  
"So, I – let me make sure I understand you." Horatio looked miserable, but nodded. "Lieutenant Kennedy was no threat to your duty. Because – because it was your responsibility to remain with him, and to, to look out for him, and that – that made it all right that it was also your – your wish." Horatio nodded, looking relieved; good, they were headed towards firmer ground at last. _And of course, your wishes must lead you to wickedness straightaway they are endorsed by no rule ... my dear, duty-mad fool, I had thought we were done with that ..._ "But Archie Saunders – might be a threat to your duty." Another nod, and the miserable expression was back. "And you wish I would – would tell you that he won't be, that I – I can't tell you that, Horatio. I can't tell you anything, because I don't know anything myself. I know nothing yet about Archie Saunders except that he has his wits back – as many as he ever had – and with God's blessing will get his health back and he has nothing in this world but the clothes on his back and a hundred pounds to his borrowed name, and – and he loves you quite as much as Archie Kennedy ever did."  
  
"Archie..." Horatio's eyes were troubled and uncertain, but he seemed calmer; Archie held out his hands and Horatio came to him, dropping to his knees in front of the chair, and gripped them tightly. They stayed so in silence, foreheads pressed together, for a long moment, and Horatio whispered "I still – I wish I knew what to _do_, Archie."  
  
"You could kiss me," Archie said, and Horatio, seeming much struck by the sense of this, did.  
  
Some time later, when they were sprawled comfortably on the floor, Archie's head on Horatio's stomach, Horatio said, idly, "What were you writing when I came in, that gave you so much trouble, Archie?"  
  
Archie sat up with a start. "Oh, God", he said, hollowly. "Oh, _bugger_."

  
* * *

  
_ The Drake and Dolphin_  
  
It was almost like a scene from a play – the heroine collapsing into the hero's arms to be kissed, golden hair trailing seductively over one shoulder – if Bush were any sort of hero. If the heroine weren't as tall as him, reeking of sweat and brandy, and – in need of a shave. If Edrington would stop laughing, and – he flinched – flailing about driving the point of his elbow into Bush's thigh. Well, and so. Life, he'd found, was very different from stories. _Probably just as well ... _  
  
A little manoeuvring and he was on the floor as well, kneeling with his back against the chair for balance. Edrington was now snickering gently into his shoulder; his breath tickled Bush's neck and he snorted in surprise and tipped Edrington's head back until their eyes met. Had they kissed, even, that first time? He no longer remembered if they had, but it seemed a sensible enough notion. Edrington tasted of brandy, his cheeks prickled against Bush's own, he had, still, a distracting tendency to burst out giggling periodically as if some new joke had just struck him – but his mouth was warm, and his enthusiasm was undeniable.  
  
Undeniable, unfettered, and undignified; when Bush had had leisure to recall their last encounter – which had been, in the first weeks after Renown returned to sea, more often than was strictly comfortable and, of late, less often than he might have enjoyed – he had thought of Edrington as possessing an intimidating amount of control, and a compelling, almost feline grace. Sober, that afternoon, he had still been daunting enough to make Bush feel as if he ought to tug his forelock; cup-shot and tousled he elicited rather a powerful urge to tweak his nose. Or kiss him more thoroughly; of the two, that seemed the more appealing option, and judging by his sudden moan, Edrington was inclined to agree. He ground himself sloppily against Bush, and Bush winced; damn, that was never his prick, that was a hip, and _how_ much thinner had he got? In sheer self-defence he wrapped one arm around Edrington's back, grasped his nape with the other hand, and pressed him close, and that seemed to calm him – well, not calm him precisely, but recall his wandering attention to the matter at hand; he was kissing Bush back now, with great determination, and his hands were stroking over Bush's back, making a lazy trail towards his arse, and Bush's enthusiasm increased accordingly; he had thought he might be expected to take Edrington at his word and bugger him senseless, and the notion was in no way unpleasant, but it seemed a complex and perilous sort of thing to attempt with the deck tilting – no, that was Edrington, rocking them back and forth in his eagerness to get himself pressed as closely to Bush as possible – and this was so pleasant and easy, with the warmth of the room and the weight of Edrington against him – he pulled away to fumble at the buttons of his waistcoat, suddenly preoccupied by the fear that it might be some obscure kind of failure of manners to take one's pleasure of a peer of the realm while fully dressed – _much too late to worry over that_ – still, it _was_ warm in the small room, even so late in the evening, and it _did_ give him a chance to admire Edrington's flushed face and half-closed eyes and the tremble in his lip – until he opened his mouth wider, and began to sing.  
  
Edrington had, Bush was forced to admit, a pleasant enough baritone ... at least, it _probably_ would be pleasant, if one were at safe distance – say, across a fire – and if he were sober enough to recall the tune. Bawled directly into one's ear and off-key with frequent interjections of nonsense, the effect was less pleasing; nothing for it but to join in and try to drown him out, Bush decided, and did his best. At least, he consoled himself, anyone passing by would be left in no doubt that they were enjoying a drunken evening and draw conclusions that ensured they were furnished with a comparatively innocent excuse for any number of odd noises that might carry beyond the door, later.  
  
With Edrington thus happily distracted, Bush was able – barely – to spare some attention from singing for the matter of buttons, and by the time the maiden seduced by a Guardsman had been abandoned once more to a life of shame and regret, not only his own waistcoat but Edrington's lay on the floor, and he was making steady progress toward working Edrington's shirt free of his breeches. Edrington seemed more than willing to co-operate, but no sooner had Bush tugged the tail of his shirt free and begun to work it over his head than Edrington pulled away and began poking fretfully at the heel of his boot.  
  
Bush sighed. "For God's sake, Edrington, what _now_? This _was_ your idea, if I recall the thing correctly..."  
  
"Absolutely." Edrington nodded his head enthusiastically, then frowned and returned his attention to his foot. "The thing is... damn! Thing is ..." he looked at Bush earnestly, "thing is... ah... yes. Thing is that a gentleman never makes love with his boots on. Only, they won't come off. Have to call for Weston." He turned to the door and raised his voice. "Weston! Wes-–" Bush clapped a hand over his mouth, aghast, and waited in an agony of nerves, but the door remained firmly closed.  
  
"We don't want Weston, Edrington. Truly, we don't."  
  
"Don't we? – ah. Quite. Anyway, gave him the night off. Remember now; he's got a girl around here, somewhere. At least one. Never minds a free evening in Portsmouth. Damn. How'm I to get these damned boots off, then?" He frowned, his forehead creasing with effort as he considered this new development, until Bush laughed and said "Come here," and pulled him close, still muttering fretfully that he really must get them off, it was awfully important... "Leave them be, damn you; you may blame me for dragging you down to these depths, if you like," Bush said impatiently at last, and Edrington's eyes widened in feigned shock, but he was tame enough when Bush pulled him back into his lap and began to run his hands under his shirt; in fact, Edrington lay against him quite happily, running his tongue over his throat and humming in appreciation as Bush pulled him closer. Firmness seemed to be the correct approach – he thought fleetingly of nails digging into flesh and teeth-marks that had faded from his arm with embarrassing slowness and tightened his grip and Edrington sighed happily and turned his face up to be kissed again.  
  
They stayed so for what seemed a long time, rocking lazily together – Bush found that Edrington was as fond of a hand wrapped around his queue as he had recalled him to be, and that he in turn was partial to the sensation of teeth closing gently on his lower lip – but one of Edrington's wandering hands made its way to the fastenings of Bush's breeches, and it seemed only manners to help him, and then, as his hand closed warmly over Bush's prick, to reciprocate, and while that was pleasant and then more than pleasant, it was also somewhat awkward; Bush began to be aware that even with the padding of a fine, thick rug beneath him, he wasn't as young as he had been and his knees, not to put too fine a point on it, were giving him Hell.  
  
He released his grasp of Edrington's prick, ignoring his mumbled complaints, and eased him onto his back – tried to ease him onto his back, but his legs were half-numb, and Edrington, having finally grasped his purpose, went helpfully limp at precisely the wrong moment, and what with one thing and another, Bush went sprawling, and landed atop him with a decided thump. No harm done; Edrington was still grinning sunnily up at him and Bush laughed and kissed him firmly and that was all right, and Edrington squirming encouragingly beneath him was decidedly better than all right, and when he applied his mouth to Edrington's throat and nipped him sharply he froze for a moment and moaned, deep in his throat, and that so precisely fit Bush's notions of all right that he did it again, and again, until Edrington was gasping and twisting and shivering beneath him and moving his hands restlessly on Bush's shoulders and Bush thought he might as well carry on as he had begun, so he did, making his way over the skin exposed by Edrington's unbuttoned shirt and then pushing it up and out of his way, and when Bush dipped his tongue beneath his waistband and traced the sharp curve of the hip that had pressed into his side earlier, Edrington's hands, which had been roving over Bush's back, stroking and urging him on, dug in hard and he cried out.  
  
Pleased, Bush carried on with his explorations, digging his hands into Edrington's hips to keep him still, or as still as possible, and incidentally peeling his breeches further down his thighs, and pondered matters of timing and approach. He swiped his tongue over the head of Edrington's prick and produced absolute stillness and a sharp, in-drawn breath, let out on a groan when he returned his attention to the hollow of his hip. "I owe you my thanks, by the way," Edrington said suddenly, in a voice that was surprisingly conversational, if breathless and blurred with drink. "I can't tell you how often on a winter's night in Flanders I thought of you and suddenly felt that I hardly needed my greatcoat at all. The Commissariat could use a few of you ..." Bush chuckled and nipped him sharply, low down on his hip, and he fell silent, or at any rate wordless, once more until Bush worked his mouth down over Edrington's prick. _Then_ he found a few words, but most of them seemed to be profane and inventive variations on the theme of 'yes, like that', so that seemed quite in order, and his voice when so employed was infinitely preferable to having him sing any more – in fact, downright melodic, and Bush carried on with enthusiasm until Edrington's voice began to stutter and fade, and then with even greater address until he stiffened, cried out some inchoate exhortation, and spilled into Bush's mouth.  
  
They fell apart, gasping, and as they lay side by side on the rug Bush was aware that Edrington was laughing softly again. He rolled over and draped himself comfortably over Bush, one hand tracing idle shapes through the thatch of hair on his chest, dipping lower to trace the fresh scar that ran along his belly. "He taught me to laugh, you know," he said, after a moment. "No, he taught me to laugh at myself; he laughed at me, and he laughed at himself. I soon learned to see there was no sting in it, and that it made everything at least a little better, if one could learn to see the joke; I shall always be grateful." Bush nodded, and they lay in silence for a moment more, until Edrington's hand widened its lazy circles and began to wander more purposefully over Bush's chest, and Bush closed his eyes and stroked idly at his hair, murmuring encouragement, gasping when Edrington's mouth closed over his nipple; his tongue flickered and Bush groaned; it was delightful, all of it, warm and lazy and nothing at all like going to a whore and agonising over whether one had the nerve – and the extra coin – to ask for anything more intimate than simple release, then only half enjoying it out of an uneasy feeling that it was an imposition, but this ... Edrington was clearly in his element, and in no hurry, and Bush was content to let him do as he pleased. He pleased, it developed, to follow much the same path as Bush had blazed, and if Bush was less verbose, he was, he trusted, no less appreciative, and when his crisis was upon him he cried out much as Edrington had, and pulled him up to rest in his arms while he gasped and shuddered and slowly came back to himself, smiling. They sprawled in front of the hearth, talking of nothing and finishing the last few inches of brandy, until the warmth and the drink and their sheer contentment overcame them and they dozed.  
  
Edrington stirred at a clatter in the hallway – Weston was back, and from the racket he was making, man must have got as beautifully sozzled as master – no, that was more noise than one man could account for, and indistinct voices as well – he shook Bush gently, then more urgently as Weston's voice filtered through the panels of the door – "Sir, you can't, really you – my orders, sir, you mustn't, you – sir, _please_!"  
  
"Weston" – Christ, it was Hornblower – "I do not wish to hear another word about your orders, or about what I must or must not do, and I do not give a single damn if he is in there buggering half the Admiralty –" the door flew open, and Horatio's head and arm appeared, Weston's desperately tugging hand still wrapped around his bicep.  
  
Edrington admired the tableau for a moment, closed his eyes briefly, then opened them and sighed. "Good – is it morning? Good morning, Horatio. Come in and shut the door – yes, Weston, you too, for Christ's sake, don't stand there gawping." Bush had been yawning and blinking and fumbling at his breeches; he was frozen in horror, now, staring with an expression of impossible yearning at the door, ten feet and the breadth of his former shipmate away.  
  
"I was going to send you a note tomorrow, you know," Edrington said gently.  
  
Horatio brushed that aside with an impatient snort, nodded vaguely in the general direction of Bush's frozen face, paused, visibly reining in impatience, and said "Good morning, William, you've saved me having to come looking for you next," crossed the floor to kneel by Edrington's side, and handed him a note.  
  
Edrington unfolded it impatiently – what in Hell could it possibly be, that Horatio could not simply tell him, so urgent that it could not wait for a civilised hour?  
  
_Alexander –  
  
I will apologise in person for my part in keeping this secret from you for so long – every day for the rest of my life, if you like, only come now, please, even if he cannot find you until late, do come – I want your presence more than I can find words to say.  
  
Archie_  
  
He stared numbly at Horatio – it was some cruel joke, or a dream – Bush was taking the paper gently from his nerveless hand and making a soft sound of astonishment, and Horatio was smiling, smiling as Edrington had rarely seen him do before and it seemed that after all it was true, and he rose to his feet and made for the door all in a rush and Bush caught him about the waist, laughing, and said "Alexander, wait! At least, don't you think perhaps a shirt?"  
  
"Or, ah – a wash?" Horatio suggested dryly, but when Bush shot a quick, guilty glance in his direction he was still grinning, and Bush flushed, then smiled back shyly and rose to assist Weston with Edrington, who was swaying on his feet, looking disconsolately down at his sticky and disreputable state and urgently ordering Weston to find him fresh clothing immediately, no, help him to a chair, no, fetch refreshments for Mr Hornblower and make it quick, damn you.  
  
Bush had found and donned his clothes now and was inching toward the door, with the intention of making himself scarce, and indeed, his hand was at the latch before Edrington swung his head round to look at him and said sharply, "William! Where do you think you're going?"  
  
"I ought to – you'll want –" Horatio was staring at him too, as if he had gone mad to take himself off where there could be no more possible need for him, and he could only serve as an awkward reminder of the shifts Edrington had found acceptable when his true choice was – so he believed – forever taken from him – and what would Archie have to say to this, if they told him? When they told him; he was sure it was too good a joke to keep for long and he flushed and stared at his feet and sought to put this into words, but before he could open his mouth they were in front of him, tugging at his hands like schoolboys, and Edrington was shaking his head and laughing.  
  
"You're in this as deep as we are, William, and you'll see it through to the end."  
  
"Besides," Horatio put in, "You have clearly got Alexander filthy drunk and debauched him, and I'm damned if you'll leave it to me to get him sober and presentable again – and if Archie hears that I found you and failed to bring you back with me my life won't be worth a shilling, I assure you. So no more of this if you please!"  
  
It took considerably more than a shirt and a wash in the end, especially as the results of Edrington's determined attempt to find fresh breeches in his trunk suggested strongly that he was still considerably further into his cups than he claimed; Bush, whose experience with this sort of thing was considerable, was obliged to hustle him over to the basin and pour an entire jug of cold water over his protesting form while Weston prudently vanished, to return when all was quiet again with a pot of coffee obtained at God only knew what difficulty and expense at this hour.  
  
Between them they had him stripped, scrubbed, dressed in fresh clothing, brushed, sober enough to walk without feeling obliged to tack into what they all agreed, once he had pointed it out to them – ha! sailors, thought they knew wind – was a decided draught in the hallway outside his rooms, and out into the street almost quickly enough to suit him, though not quickly enough to stop him beginning to panic again.  
  
Cup-shot, unshaven, damply bedraggled, fresh from the arms – and mouth – of a man Archie had befriended believing that he and Edrington had never so much as _met_ – and it rapidly became apparent that they were headed to no place less terrifying than the townhouse Pellew kept in Portsmouth, a place he had seen the inside of precisely once before, on a night when he and Pellew had had the worst disagreement – _the second-worst disagreement_, he thought, remembering with a shudder his behaviour of a few months past – of their checkered and lengthy acquaintance.  
  
Not _quite_ the romantic dream of tragically parted lovers reunited – he stumbled over a loose cobble – _falling into his arms, at least, I should be able to manage nicely_ – _we seem to be accumulating a rather ... odd set of traditions, do we not, Alexander?_ – _... he taught me to laugh at myself ... _  
  
First things first; there was Pellew to be faced, somehow – faced, and apologised to in the humblest terms imaginable, if Archie's presence under his roof meant half what it suggested. His dignity would survive, and if it did not, well, right now he could scarcely find it in his heart to care, not if it died in such a cause as this. His mood lightened all at once, and he began to sing under his breath –  
  
_Que donneriez-vous belle, pour ravoir votre ami? Je donnerais Versailles, Paris et Saint-Denis..._  
  
– then would have hushed himself, but that Bush was lending a pleasantly growly bass to the effort, too, and as they turned onto St Thomas's Street Horatio's tuneless, grating voice joined them –  
  
_Aupres de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon, fait bon, fait bon, Aupres de ma blonde, qu'il fait bon dormir! _  
  
As they mounted the steps, Pellew's man opened the door and ushered them quickly inside.  
  
How quickly one grew greedy, in the face of good fortune – a scant hour ago he'd have given all he had and half the entailed property for a tolerably good chance of seeing Archie ever again in this life, or even for a written guarantee of a reunion in the next, and now he was in a fever of impatience and thought he might truly jump out of his skin if he could not see him, hear his voice, touch him now, immediately, but when he saw the hesitation in Edward's eyes he knew he could not simply brush past him – "Edward, I – God, I am sorry. I ought to have had more sense, ought to have – thoughtless, arrogant, idiotic – and I –" Pellew met his gaze steadily, and he ground to an inconclusive halt, willing to humble himself as much as might be necessary, but disconcerted by Pellew's expression – why should he look at him with such tenderness, as if he, not Pellew, had been wronged?  
  
"Alexander, I was ..." Pellew cleared his throat. "I was a damned fool to even try to speak to you that day – I had spent a month carefully spreading reports that would paint me as the blackest of rogues in your eyes, I could tell you nothing, having no certain news and too great a need for secrecy to risk a word in your ear at Plymouth Docks in any case ... I can only tell you that I had been fretting over you, and you appeared before my eyes, and – I forgot myself."  
  
He opened his arms and Edrington stepped into them gladly, a boy again for a moment, and Pellew drew his head down – it was strange, still, to be the taller one – and stroked his hair in the old way. "My dear, honourable Alexander ... " He shuddered against Pellew's shoulder, staggered by the enormity of his relief, then recollected Horatio and William's eyes upon them and stepped back. Back, but not away, even as he smiled awkwardly and cleared his throat and stood straight his grip on Pellew's hands remained, but –  
  
"Do I know anyone you _haven't_ had, my lord?"  
  
He spun round, his gaze slipping heedlessly past Bush's startled grin and Horatio's frankly astonished countenance – he was staring at Pellew as if the man had sprouted tree limbs from his forehead – and there was Archie, leaning on the door-frame – clutching it, even – desperately thin and pale, obviously favouring his side, and his hair was cut short at his collar and there were great dark circles under his eyes and a tinge to his skin that spoke of recent fever, and he was coughing even as he _laughed_ at him again – still – and he was _alive_, and when Edrington reached him he let go the door-frame all in a rush, and – fell into Edrington's arms, still laughing.

  
* * *

  
He was _not_ tired. Archie gulped at his coffee – it was only that it was so comfortable to be ensconced on the sofa and – discretion being entirely wasted on _this_ company – tucked firmly under Alexander's arm, with Horatio sprawled at their feet – and the air was a bit close in here, no more than that, and he was _not_ going to be sent to bed and miss a minute of this, of Alexander and Horatio and William and Pellew all together and safe and laughing and talking and ... he hid a yawn. Alexander and Pellew were comparing notes on what was being said at Whitehall and at the Admiralty about the chances of the Peace lasting the fall, while William and Horatio listened intently; rather a lot, it seemed, but little that was news and less that might be trusted; tiring of that, they fell to questioning Alexander about how the Rifle Corps was fairing, and then to desultory gossip – Pellew had had occasion to call on Kitty Cobham in London – he must write to her tomorrow, Archie thought with a guilty start – and Alexander's sister, married the year before, no, it was nearly two years, now – had recently presented her husband with a son. Commonplaces, all of it, and yet infinitely satisfying – Archie closed his eyes for a moment, no more that that. He sat up with a start at the sound of his name, and looked about him guiltily, to find himself the centre of a circle of indulgent eyes.  
  
"Bed for you, sir," Pellew said sternly, and Archie opened his mouth to protest and yawned hugely instead. "In fact, bed for all of us, I think, gentlemen – Mr Bush, I can send a man in the morning for your belongings – plenty of room – come with me and we shall find you a few things –" William nodded to them all and followed, and they were left to their own devices. Horatio yawned elaborately.  
  
"I'm for sleep as well – I slept on the mail-coach last night, if one cares to call that sleep –" He kissed Archie, embraced Alexander briefly, and took himself off. Horatio really was a terrible actor, Archie thought with sleepy affection, and submitted to be helped to bed as if he were a nonagenarian. _We'll see about that..._  
  
Alexander seemed determined to undress him as if he were a drowsing child, and Archie scowled at him for it, but tolerantly. He was willing, he decided, to stand a great deal of coddling, if it meant his hands free and Alexander in easy reach, though damnably uncooperative. Still, by the time his hands descended to Archie's trouser buttons they were gratifyingly unsteady and showed a pronounced tendency to linger; Archie took advantage of his distraction to press his lips to Alexander's exposed nape and make him curse and look up reproachfully, only to find himself soundly kissed; he gave in all at once and returned the kiss with enthusiasm, only pulling away when Archie's mouth split in a jaw-cracking yawn. Alexander sighed and shook his head at him.  
  
"If I thought there was so much as an even chance that you could keep your eyes open ..." He returned to his work with determination, and in a few more moments they were down to their shirts and crawling beneath the covers, Archie still yawning.  
  
"Always shut them anyway..." But his voice was blurred and even as he curled himself possessively against Alexander he was asleep.  
  
He woke before dawn, prodded into awareness by an aching bladder. As he was slipping back into bed Alexander slid out; when he returned they were both wide awake and the house was still. Archie recalled his frustrated plan of the evening before and looked up hopefully. Alexander kissed him and laughed. "Not going to fall asleep on me this time?"  
  
"Neither on nor under." He slid a provocative hand along Alexander's thigh and returned the kiss with interest, tugging him closer impatiently. "Where did we leave off? Here, I think..." Alexander smiled slightly in response to his teasing tone, but his eyes were wide and solemn, and his hand trembled on Archie's shoulder; Archie caught it in his own and kissed it, blinking to clear his vision. "Alexander ... it's all right. I don't break easily, you know."  
  
"No. You don't, do you? Dear God." His voice broke over the words, and his hand gripped Archie's painfully hard. "Archie..."

  
* * *

  
"We ought to turn out."  
  
Edrington tightened his arm around Archie even as he nodded agreeably. "I suppose we ought."  
  
They lay in contented silence until Edrington said softly; "For weeks I would wake in the morning thinking it had all been a dream. And then remember. And here I am, waking up, if I am awake –" Archie obligingly pinched him, and he snorted – "and it was. I can hardly believe it, even now."  
  
Archie's hand was against his cheek. "I can hardly believe it myself, sometimes. But here I am. Here _we_ are." He proved it with a kiss, thoughtful and thorough. "I thought you'd be furious with me, Alexander."  
  
He made to deny it; stopped himself, and said ruefully, "Oh, I was. At you, at Edward, at Horatio, at His damned Britannic Majesty's bloody Navy – at God. I wore them all out, though, hard as I tried to keep hold of them. Too much dying, all around me, for me to go on cherishing the notion I had any particular right to bear grudges." Archie nodded. "God lasted the longest, but even that wore out in time. I think I am a better Christian now than I've been in years; you will doubtless be amused by that, imp."  
  
"Am I your cross to bear, then?"  
  
Edrington kissed his forehead, gently. "I suppose you must be, mustn't you?" He fell silent, brooding there with his chin on Archie's hair. "No, I tell a lie; above all, I was furious with myself. I still am."  
  
"For getting yourself tangled up with a – with a mutineer?"  
  
"For letting him sail off with so much between us, all unsaid. For never once saying that I – that he was – " Even now, there were no words, none that would serve him, not for this, but at least he could confess his lack and pray he might somehow be understood, however imperfectly. Archie had gone still and silent against him; he shut his eyes; opened them wide in astonishment at Archie's sudden explosive snort against his throat.  
  
"Idiot."

  
* * *

  
Bush bent his head over his plate and let the talk wash over him; they were all so clever, and he so tongue-tied – on shipboard he had managed well enough, between rank and the conventions of the wardroom and Edrington, at least Edrington alone, he thought with a private smile, would never abash him again, but Pellew – Dear God, that he should sit at Captain Sir Edward Pellew's breakfast table, and have his cup refreshed by him, relaxed and joking in a shabby old banyan – with Pellew and Alexander and Archie all talking nineteen to the dozen, even though they were careful to include him – were pleased to include him, he corrected himself – he seemed always to be half a step behind them, racing to untangle the thread. They were trading quotations, now – odd snatches of verse that were half-familiar at best, and he looked around in confusion. Horatio caught his eye and smiled, and Bush realised with a start that he, too had been silently applying himself to his toast, smiling or nodding occasionally, but making no attempt to keep up with the flow of conversation. That was all right, then, just to listen, if Horatio felt it was, and they were great fun to watch and to listen to – ah, Pellew was saying something he knew, now, something from school, he thought – emboldened, he waited until Pellew had finished and was chewing at a piece of bacon, and burst forth impulsively: "We few, we happy few..." Edrington was grinning, and Bush blushed as his mind caught up with his tongue... _ a band of brothers?_ it was absurd, worse, it was obscene – _band of buggers, more like ... _. he ducked his head and began to compose a frantic apology, but Archie's hand caught at his sleeve; he looked up to find himself regarded with affectionate approval.  
  
"'For he to-day that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother.' I was thinking of that too, William." They regarded one another for a moment more, then Archie grinned, and the moment was lost, but Bush found himself thinking, as he finished the last scraps on his plate, that he could not remember bacon to have tasted better than it did at this exact moment.

  
* * *

  
"You are welcome here for as long as you like, Alexander, you know that. Why not send for your things, and let me have a room made up?"  
  
Edrington had wiped his lips and nodded. He had already considered, and rejected, the notion of dragging Archie back to his lodgings – he'd no knack for nursing, and doubted Archie would accept being bossed and fussed over from him as calmly as he was, apparently, prepared to accept it from Pellew and the redoubtable Mrs Maddern, who he had met that morning while they were at last getting themselves dressed. She had cast a jaundiced but tolerant eye on the pillow and quilt he had draped artistically over the armchair, looked sharply at Archie, seemed to find his condition and morale acceptable, sniffed once, and gone to fetch an extra jug of hot water – this would do, he considered, very nicely for a home for Archie while he was still unsteady on his feet and uncertain in his new life. Which life, he knew, would need a great many things in it that Edrington could neither be nor buy for him ... and while this house was a haven and a refuge this morning, he would never, he knew, be truly at home here.  
  
"I know. And I thank you, and shall doubtless be on your doorstep all too often for your patience, but I think I will be better where I am."  
  
There was disappointment in Pellew's eyes, but he nodded, and after a moment nodded again, and Edrington had known he was understood, and had smoothed over the awkwardness of parting by offering to accompany Bush to the mail-coach; it had been a rush to get to Bush's neglected lodgings for his belongings and still make the coach, and he had scarcely had time to brush his lips over Archie's hair and rest his hand on Pellew's shoulder and nod affectionately at Horatio before he had had to struggle with his boots and liberate his coat from the maid who had borne it away to be brushed and scurry out the door. They had been in time, just, and Bush was now safely en route to Chichester, looking wistfully back as the coach pulled out but for all that, Edrington thought, relieved at the prospect of a return, if not to tranquility, with three sisters crammed into the cottage with him, at least to some sort of normality, and Edrington was left to make his leisurely way back to his lodgings alone. He had, on impulse, taken an indirect route, one which led him past the docks, and he stood now watching the frigates and the first-rates and the Indiamen bobbing peacefully at anchor, letting the thin drizzle and the wind coming in from the water blow the last cobwebs from his indulgence – indulgences – of the night away.  
  
Horatio, to his credit, had concealed whatever relief he might be feeling well – there was, Edrington thought, some strain there, but Archie had not mentioned it and he had not pried – they had managed before his advent in their lives, and they could manage still. And he could leave them to it, and walk a few pleasant blocks in summer weather when he wanted to call – often, very – and when Horatio got a ship or a berth, or Pellew new orders, or Edrington was required in Dorsetshire, or Archie felt well enough to make the journey to Scotland or war came again, as it seemed certain to, sooner or later, the pieces would tumble and slip and come to rest in some new pattern, as yet unguessable – but it, too, would have its own particular beauty, of that much he was certain.  
  
As he made his way slowly across the docks and turned his steps toward his lodgings, he found that he was laughing.  
  
~Fin

* * *


End file.
